


Best

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's playing John quickly, tonight, a staccato rush of warmth and breath and skin and John's already panting, arching into each craved treat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best

"You know what I want?" Rodney asks abruptly. "A blow job."

"No."

"What do you mean, no. We're dating. This means we trade sexual favors."

John resists the urge to rub his forehead; it never accomplishes anything but a red mark. "No, McKay."

Eeling around in his seat, Rodney blinks over at him in a way that is absolutely, completely unappealing. It's Rodney's second-most effective trick. "Why not? You like blow jobs."

"Wait. You want to give _me_ a blow job?"

"Yes, that's what I said, isn't it?"

John bites his lip and doesn't bother correcting that statement: Rodney's offering to blow him, something that doesn't happen all that much. "Right. Yeah, a blow job is fine."

It isn't that Rodney is adverse to giving them. Whether it's a question of reciprocity or just blanket enjoyment of sex in all its various forms, Rodney is a sexual _playground_. There's nothing he won't try and very few things that he won't do repeatedly.

It's just that whenever blow jobs come up, it's usually John who's eagerly sliding onto his knees, mouth already watering with anticipation.

Rodney's yet to complain about the situation. John hasn't, either.

But it means Rodney giving a blow job -- and, more importantly, offering one -- is different enough that it leaves John wondering just what's going on.

Naked and looming pale and pink, Rodney knee-walks up the bed and casually shoves John's legs even wider. "You didn't even take off your boxers."

"McKay."

Frustrated, Rodney blows out a breath and starts tugging at the smooth, soft material. "Sometimes I wonder why I'm gay."

Tipped abruptly over onto his side, John says into the pillow, "Well, you have this thing for cock."

"True. Although I like asses more." He rubs briskly over John's ass, before skating up to tug and tweak his nipples, a casually possessive gesture that takes John's breath away faster than the actual touch on his skin. "I don't necessarily need a man for that."

Swallowing around a lump of something cold and tight, John whines, " _McKay."_

"No, no, see, this is where you're supposed to ask me if I've met a lot of women who like ass-fucking," Rodney instructs him. His hands are busy all over John's body, nails scraping over the inside of John's elbows, rubbing almost too hard against his abdomen. He's playing John quickly, tonight, a staccato rush of warmth and breath and skin and John's already panting, arching into each craved treat. "And I'll reply that I've known a few, although most of them aren't quite as eager as men. It's the lack of prostate, probably. Although..." Finally, finally Rodney looks down to study his handwork: John, red and straining, already starting to go slick with sweat as he remains exactly where he is, passive and accepting as Rodney roams over him. "The idea of you wet, John, sticky and sweet with it, squeezing your thighs together over and over again while you try not to rock, to rub yourself against the seam of your pants or whatever else you can find -- I bet you'd be sopping by now, wouldn't you? You wouldn't want to open your legs because then the world would know just how slick you were already."

"Ro -- _McK_ \-- " Where Rodney is eloquent and erudite during sex, John is preverbal noises and thrashing arms. He arches up against Rodney's hands, hating the pictures that unspool into his mind because this is the _Pegasus_ galaxy and there's such a thing as tempting fate.

Except that Rodney's not wrong. The idea of turning liquid with heat and want is appealing, the idea of just melting, boneless, thoughtless while Rodney plays him with a virtuoso's skill is not a new desire and just as ardently wanted as the first time. As all the times.

He gets lost in it, so much so that it takes him a moment to realize Rodney's stopped talking. Rodney's arranged on his stomach, stretched out across the bed and hitched up on his elbows so he can reach John's cock, already wet and curving eagerly towards his stomach.

"Mm," Rodney says, once. And then doesn't say anything for a long, long time.

It takes John nearly a minute to work out what's different. It still feels good, a hot, slick draw as Rodney finally takes him all the way in, tongue rubbing against the head of John's cock, curling around the bottom so it rubs the roof of his mouth. Rodney lets him slide free, mouthing until he finds the base and leaves sucking, stinging kisses up the shaft and onto the wet, spongy head. It's _good_.

Except Rodney's eyes are closed.

John studies the shadows his eyelashes create, fanning against a cheek that goes redder and redder with each moment. Rodney always looks at him. Always. He's constantly assessing, repositioning, _learning_ , so focused on John that sometimes the intensity is embarrassing and he has to close his eyes, hiding in darkness while Rodney systematically takes him apart.

But this time, his eyes are closed.

Struggling to make his brain work, John hitches his shoulders up so he can watch. A cock is a floppy kind of thing, and without Rodney calculating angles with every inhalation, it tends to flop more than John's used to. Rodney doesn't seem to mind, though, chasing after with an opened mouth that curves at the edges, gleefully sucking it back in before doing something else -- good, oh god, so good -- that allows it to slide back out. His hands flex against John's hip, his thigh, a petting, almost gentling motion that John belatedly identifies as _kneading_ , offering leverage whenever Rodney needs to angle himself differently, trying something else.

It's oddly beautiful. There's still that familiar intensity, but this time John doesn't feel like Icarus, his wings near melting under Rodney's regard. No, this is _internal_ , almost, a strange communion between Rodney and John's dick. Like John himself is nearly irrelevant to the process.

It's -- nice.

"Hey," he murmurs, carding his fingers through Rodney's hair, cupping the back of his head before tracing over sweaty skin. "Hey -- oh, oh, yeah, _Rodney."_

Rodney moans as he slides back, arching into the hand on his shoulder before sliding back all the way down. His eyes are still closed, still locked away in whatever he's thinking, but he's not closing John out, either. So John touches the way he rarely ever does, when Rodney sucks him, too busy flailing and fisting the sheets or the wall to risk grabbing hold of Rodney. But there's no urgency, no steady drum beat of _come, come on, come_ , so John lets his thumb rub over the skin of Rodney's cheek, against the head of his own dick inside, and both of them moan happily.

He's careful not to apply any real pressure. Whatever this is, he doesn't want to interrupt the expression of peace Rodney wears, even as he begins to rock up and down, hell on his neck probably, sucking John with almost reverent devotion. There's nothing compelling about this new gesture, just like before, and John didn't know better he'd say that... that Rodney was _tasting_ , lost in the motions of his own body and the cock in his mouth, the bitter and sweet of being the one to _do_ this, to be the cause of that much pleasure.

If he stretches, John can run a hand down Rodney's back, over his ass and down between his legs. It _is_ a stretch, just fingers and the barest scrape of nails, but he manages it just so he can trace the back of Rodney's sac, verifying for his own mind that Rodney's enjoying this.

Against his stomach, Rodney makes a frustrated noise and rubs his nose in, hard.

"Okay," John half-laughs, too breathless for more, settling back onto one elbow while the other remains steady on Rodney's shoulder. "Okay, I get it. This is for you."

Because it is. Rodney is _lost_ in it, the motions, the feelings, the steady rise of pressure that has nothing to do with want and everything to do with -- with John doesn't know what. Comfort, maybe, the sexual equivalent of a thick winter quilt. Or maybe he's completely wrong.

Whatever it is, Rodney's forehead is unlined for the first time in days and for all his mouth is stretched into a wet-pink circle, he looks like he's smiling.

John lets himself drift. He can't last forever, not with Rodney heaving his shoulders as he takes John all the way in, shifted up onto his knees while he groans and pants and tries it again, not when Rodney finally lets his hands to more than just hold, thumb rubbing with quick, habitual motions behind John's balls. But he tries, for Rodney.

He even manages to succeed for a while, too. Until he realizes that Rodney is _moaning_ , barely-there breathy whines that vibrate along John's bones, subtle enough that he doesn't notice them until suddenly he's _desperate_ , breathing hitching hot and yawning in his chest even as he grabs at the sheets, long conditioning fortunately kicking in, gasping out, "Rodney, please, I -- Rodney, c'mon, c'mon," because he doesn't want this to end. Not on _his_ terms.

Finally, Rodney drags his mouth -- apple red and still _open_ \-- off of John's cock. "Mm," he rasps, voice lost against the slick slide of John's skin, and oh, he's moving, crawling up so he can kiss that apple tartness into John's mouth, bitter with salt and skin and perfect.

John goes from sixty to mach 1 in seconds. He wraps his legs around Rodney, frantically getting a hand between them so he can grip both their cocks, John's almost too soft after Rodney's attention, and Rodney's slick, so _slick_ , slippery and scalding, together. He kisses, and strokes, and tries not to dig his heels too hard into Rodney's back, because Rodney is still _kissing_ him, sweet and nearly soulful.

 _"Rodney_ ," John whispers, cracked and broken. "Rodney."

"Yeah," Rodney whispers back, and finally shudders, hard, spilling all over John's hand and cock, the wet skin of his belly where John's thumb rubs over and over. "Mm."

John doesn't come so much as let go, puddling happily onto the bed while he gets his breath back. "What," he manages, "was that."

It comes out as mostly vowels.

"Fun?"

Well, yes, John is willing to qualify a -- he checks -- a nearly hour and a half long blow job as _fun_ , but that isn't the answer he's looking for.

It can keep, though. Rodney is breathing softly against his shoulder, hair tickling John's chin, and already so close to sleep that it's not worth questioning him. Shifting carefully, aware that he's going to be sore later, John levers Rodney's weight until it's mostly on the bed and puts his arms around him.

It's how he sleeps best.


End file.
